


A Good Year for the Roses

by gilligankane



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:39:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana is the second.</p><p>AU Vampires fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Year for the Roses

Santana is the second one.   
  
Quinn is first,  _again_  - by a few days too, though she doesn’t sire Santana. No, it’s some senior she blew in the back of his daddy’s Camry that does the deed, cornering her on her way to the drugstore for Plan B. Her stash ran out a few weeks ago and Britt has been really good about making guys suit up so there hasn’t been any need for them. But B slips up with some freshman with a cute smile and Santana runs to the corner store only to get stopped halfway by this guy. Ron or Ross or, no,  _Rob_.  
  
It hurts, but not more than anything else she’s experienced, like shots or anything. It doesn’t even hurt as much as when she has to get her finger pricked for blood tests. She thinks maybe he’s just gotten better at kissing – and really, anything would have been an improvement – and it’s not until her head spins and her knees buckle a little that she realizes something is wrong.  
  
She blacks out before she hits the ground and when she wakes up, it’s daylight. Her neck aches – a dull kind of ache like she pulled a muscle or something. When she touches it, her fingertips come back sticky and red. She nearly gags.  
  
Fucking blood.  
  
She hates it.  
  
Halfway to Brittany’s house, Plan B forgotten, she catches a whiff of something. It draws her in, the way that Breadstix waves those delicious grainy treats under nose. It tugs at her and hooks her head to the side and she’s helpless to follow. Around two corners, down through an alley, up half a block and on the left: a dark alley so heavy with the  _smell_  that she goes a little weak in the knees. Not the weak in the knees like last night; a good weak in the knees. A “the-love-of-my-life-just-did-the-most-amazing-thing-in-the-world” weak – if she believed in that shit.  
  
The only thing capable of making her that kind of weak in the knees is breadsticks and Brittany’s tongue. Whatever is in that alley isn’t either of those, but she follows the pull in her stomach anyway.  
  
It takes a minute for her eyes to adjust. Not as long as she thought they would take, but long enough that she doesn’t recognize the person in front of her for a moment or two.  
  
And once she does, she wishes she could un-see it. She wants to bleach her eyes out or burn her retinas or remove the part of her brain that will remember seeing Quinn fucking Fabray on her hands and knees in a dark alley, hunched over someone who looks too still to be alive. When Quinn lifts her pretty little head and Santana sees the stains around her mouth, she recoils against the pull, stumbling back into the opening of the alley. Her palms dig into the concrete as she scrambles backwards, her scream caught in her throat.  
  
“No,” she hears Quinn hiss. Quinn’s hands are wrapped around her arms before Santana manages to exhale, pulling her back into the darkness. She tries to struggle but Quinn is stronger than the last time they did.  _Too_  strong, really. Way stronger than she should be. “Santana,” Quinn hisses again. “Stop.”  
  
She goes slack in Quinn’s grip so quickly that she practically slips through Quinn’s fingers. The smell is so overwhelming and Quinn’s hands are so cold and the red around her mouth is so dark and slick and wet that Santana feels bile rise up in her throat. She swallows it down and rolls her eyes back into her head, way from the body on the ground. Her foot catches on something though. She doesn’t look down to find out what, but she starts struggling again, twisting and turning and bucking out of Quinn’s hold.  
  
But Quinn is too strong and too fast and the air is forced out of her lungs as Quinn crushes them together. “Santana. Fucki-  _stop_. Calm down.  _Calm down_.”  
  
It’s the swearing that makes her stop. Quinn Fabray, Daddy’s little church girl doesn’t swear. She doesn’t hide in dark alleys and press herself against widely known promiscuous girls. Quinn Fabray sure as hell doesn’t suck on dead bodies in dark alleys. And almost every instinct is telling her to get the fuck out of here, but there’s this other instinct, simmering under a surface she didn’t know she had, that’s telling her to push Quinn away from her and _stay_.  
  
“Santana,” Quinn says again, quieter and softer – more like Quinn Fabray talks. “Calm down, please.”  
  
Her gaze is drawn down, following that one instinct, and the bile rises again, quicker than she can get a handle on it. It is a body, stretched out and starkly pale except for the mess of red around the collarbone. It’s some kid in their year – another faceless jock she never bothered to introduce herself to. She’d never have the chance to now but there wasn’t a lot to regret. She didn’t know him. She didn’t kill him. She didn’t… suck his blood.  
  
Quinn did that.  
  
“I’m calm,” she finally says, her voice hoarse. “What did… what did you…”  
  
Quinn’s cold fingers are under her chin, lifting her eyes from the dead guy on the ground. She stares into Quinn’s eyes but there’s a different look there – not guilt or sympathy. Not anger or hatred. Just a certain sort of coldness that Santana sees in Sylvester’s eyes sometimes; the same look Santana gets every once in a while when she wants something she isn’t willing to sacrifice anything for.  
  
The fingers move from under her chin and over her jaw bone, tugging at her bottom lip. Quinn’s fingers are in her mouth – which is gross and unsanitary but she’s standing in someone’s blood and fucking sanitary seems irrelevant right now – pushing the rows of her teeth apart.  
  
“Look,” Quinn whispers, holding her finger in front of Santana’s face. The tip is pierced, one small dot of blood building and spilling to one side, running down the length of Quinn’s finger. It’s about to drop off the edge of Quinn’s finger when Santana grips Quinn’s wrist in her hand and wraps her mouth around Quinn’s finger, sucking.  
  
It feels right. There’s this warm sensation in the pit of her stomach, the kind that coils right before a really good orgasm. The blood slides over her tongue and down her throat smoother than a wine cooler and she wants more. She can feel Quinn’s other hand pushing at her face but she feels a surge of power that allows her to push back even as she swallowing more and more blood.  
  
Quinn finally just hauls off and punches her across the face, her neck twisting violently as she cushions the blow. The finger she’s sucking on greedily is gone and she’s twisting back again, trying to find it when Quinn hits her again in the same spot. The pain erupts in her face, white-hot flash of heat, but she shakes it off, growling low in her throat.  
  
This time, when she stops, it’s because of the fangs.  
  
They’re poking out just below the line of Quinn’s upper lip but the blonde sneers and the skin pulls back more than far enough for Santana to see them. She read  _Dracula_  when she was younger. She’s seen True Blood, though she watched it more to see that really hot blonde vampire naked more than she watched for the  _vampire_  aspect. She knows what a vampire looks like.  
  
She knows what those fucking fangs are for.  
  
“You have them too,” Quinn says. “Go ahead. Feel them.”  
  
Slowly, Santana runs her finger along the same path as Quinn’s, touching her teeth and sliding sideways until she feels the sharp end unexpectedly. The pad of her fingertip doesn’t tear, but it’s pointed and jagged and the pieces fall together.  
  
Rob the crappy kisser, waking up on the sidewalk, the smell of blood, the cuts on her neck, deep-throating Quinn’s finger, the fangs – it all adds up to something Santana doesn’t want to voice.  
  
Quinn fucking Fabray does it for her.  
  
“You’re a vampire,” she says. “S, you’re a-”  
  
“I fucking heard you,” she hisses, running her tongue over the unfamiliar teeth. Brittany is going to have a fucking field day with this.  
  
 _Shit. Brittany_.  
  
Quinn’s gripping her arm, pulling her back into the alley so quickly Santana’s head spins. “You’ll get used to that.”  
  
“Used to what?”  
  
“The rollercoaster feeling every time you move too fast. It’ll pass.” Quinn grips both sides of her face and holds her still. “S, I need you to pay attention.”  
  
She shakes her face out of Quinn’s hold. “How long have you-”  
  
“A couple of days. S,  _focus_. For a second, okay?”  
  
And now she’s pissed. Because  _of course_ , again, Quinn is the first one. She was the first one to get Cheerios captain. She got Finn and Sam and Puck – and Santana really doesn’t want them, because they all kind of suck in the sack, except for when Puck is on his A-game, which he hasn’t been since he went Gaga for the Krispy Kreme bandit. She got Cheerios captain  _back_  and now she gets to be a fucking vampire first?  
  
Life isn’t fair at all anymore. No matter how hard a girl works to be the best, some blonde ass-kisser with blood sweeter than anything Santana has ever tasted comes in and steals her thunder.  
  
She growls again and Quinn kind of smirks at her in a way that says she knows exactly what Santana is thinking.  
  
“Really, Santana?” Quinn asks quietly.  
  
Santana nods. “Really,” she says just as softly, her voice hard and confident.  
  
Quinn shakes her head. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”  
  
“And neither do you,” Santana points out.  
  
They both stare at each other, the smell of the jock’s lifeless corpse wafting up between them. Santana feels her stomach turn over in anticipation, the very idea of blood sending waves of excitement through her body.  
  
The blonde smiles slowly at her and takes a few steps back into the darkest corner of the alleyway, disappearing before Santana can call an official start to this unofficial game they’re going to play. She kneels down at the edge of the body but the blood smells a little sour. She won’t take Quinn Fabray’s leftovers – she’s done that once and she won’t settle for it again. She’ll find someone new, someone fresh. She might not know what she’s doing, but she’s a quick learner.  
  
Quinn may have been the first, but Santana will be the best.


End file.
